HELLO READERS! So, I'm still pretty new to writing and truthfully, this thing here's my baby. I slaved over this, and still feel like something's not quite right with it, but I wanted to share and(hopefully) get some feedback and criticism. It's set in the CANON world, but is an AU, if that makes any sense. I'm going to try to not tell you directly what's happening and what happened yet, because I wanted the mood of this to be very...mysterious? I'm pretty sure the smarty-pants out there will get what's going on pretty early, but until then, please bear with the general vagueness. Nami is not in a stable mindset as of now, and the title doesn't imply stability. Cookies for any theories anyone comes up with! And yes, before I am attacked, I know that Nami does not use swords, nor does she own one currently. Without further ado, enjoy my magnum opus, THE BREAKING POINT.

the breaking point

The stain of blood washes away as easily as the soap she lathers on her skin, but the scent, the smell, will not leave. She can smell it—the blood. Under her fingernails, between the creases of her knuckles and in the thick curtain of her hair. It's there. It will not wash away. She wonders if others can see it, if they can see what she is, what she has done. She knows that he can. She can see it in him, every time she looks into his eyes. His fear, his distrust. It's there, and like the scent of blood, she doesn't know how to make it go away.

one | a lovely picture

She can't breathe.

She's making quite the image, she's sure, with the way she's clawing at her chest and trying but failing to stand from the snow. The snow is red where she touches it, the stain of her bloody hands tainting the powder soft, damnably wretched white. She knows that if she were to turn her head exactly forty-five degrees to the left, the two men who'd jumped her would be tainting the snow as well. The one with the blond hair should be still clutching a stone in his left hand—she'd broken the right— as it was the weapon he'd used to slam and crush her ribs when he'd pinned her to the ice ground under the weight of his knees. The other, the one with the brown hair—the one she'd disemboweled with one swipe of her knife—is still breathing, she can hear his gasping breaths, albeit barely. She's not quite sure whether it is her who cannot hear clear enough, or him who cannot breathe strong enough.

She should do something about that.

It's dangerous to leave the enemy alive and so close.

Her fingers find purchase in a magically appearing tree, bark biting under her fingernails as she pitifully tries to scrabble up the trunk. She has a strangely far away thought laced with worry at how it doesn't hurt. She knows it should, but the man with the brown hair forty-five degrees to her left moans and she forgets her train of far away thought. The jagged moan is pitiful. Just like her. He, however, can breathe. The lucky bastard.

She should call for help. The others shouldn't be too far from her in the woods, if she can get a coherent word out, then they should come running to aid her. They owe her at least that much. She is the one who got them this far in the first place. So, logically, if she called for help, someone should come for her.

But she can't breathe.

"He—" she begins, but is stopped by a hacking cough that is alarmingly painful. Blood chokes her, and she has to force herself to cough more in attempt to clear her throat to no avail, only more blood comes. It's so hot, it burns as it leaks from her nose and splatters across her hands, her face, the tree. Tears come to the edges of her eyes, further blurring her vision.

Calm down.

The thigh of her weatherproof pants feel suddenly sticky, and she realizes that her stomach hurts just faintly. She's cut herself in her flailing.

You're panicking.

Her vision is tunneling. The burning in her chest is unbearable now, and no matter how much she tears at her neck, she cannot breathe. Black curls in at the edges of her vision and she wearily blinks it away, only to have it return more aggressively and rapidly each time. She can't feel her fingers. She can't feel her toes. The snow is no longer cold.

She's dying.

She's going to die. Strangely, the thought isn't as terrifying as she thought it would be. It actually excites her. Pity, though, all her treasure and finery would be left oh, so lonely. But wait—would the others know how to reach her safe house? Would they know to leave her things in the right hands? She should have been prepared.

Just as she's lamenting the fact that she hadn't yet written a will, there's a flash of blue-black fur, white teeth and tanned skin filling her tunneled vision. Fingers with death written across the knuckles reach out, and she opens her mouth to reprimand him for touching her again, but before she can form the words—not that she could, even if she wanted too—she's already falling into the darkness.

Good, she thinks as the world goes dark, maybe he'll learn to not be such an ass after I'm dead, and finally, she smiles to herself, finally, I can get some rest.

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Nami's bandaged fingers twitch against the wrappings around her abdomen.

It itches.

Badly.

The medication Law forced her to take with a stern glare and no nonsense scowl has dulled the pain, but the itching is steadfast. She's tempted to tear the gauze and whatnot away and scratch wildly at the skin around her newly, neatly stitched scars underneath, but Law wouldn't take too kindly to that. Tie her to the bed and strip her naked, he would, if she did as she pleased. The bastard would smile while doing it too.

She bets he's smiling now. She can hear him humming in that awfully off tune way of his through the walls. If the itching doesn't drive her insane first, then his voice will. She's half tempted to cut his tongue out when he returns to check her wounds so that he may never make that wretched noise ever again, but then, she remembers, Law is her friend.

Friends don't hurt each other.

Friends help. Not hurt.

Nami decides then that she will leave Law and his terrible humming be.

The room which 'Doctor' Law has imprisoned her in has no windows, no decoration, no stimulation. There is one door, one bed, a metal bolted table, chair and four walls, all of which, is stark white and smelling of sterile antiseptic. The floor is concrete. If she were to walk on it, she's sure blood would seep out of it from the warmth of her feet with the way it smells of steeped blood. The room is naked, and likewise, she feels exposed in it and in her pale blue shift. The absence of the familiar weight of her knife and swords has her anxious even more so. If she had just one weapon, she wouldn't be so unnerved, but Law is always careful to never leave his medical tools and equipment in the room with her. Not that she would hurt him with it.

Law is her friend, and friends help, not hurt.

…She wants her swords.

The knob of the white door turns with a dull creak, and Nami's eyes dart to it. Law's figure is so large that the doorway doesn't fit it. Or maybe, the doorway is so small that his figure doesn't fit. Either way, Law cannot enter without turning to the side.

The smell of carrots and chicken makes Nami's mouth water. She wants so badly to eat an entire roast duck and even begged Law the other day for just a bite of meat, but Law was and is the stubborn caretaker. No solids, yet, he'd said. Yet. Maybe she will try again today. The shine in his slate eyes and slight upward curve of his mouth tells her that he is in a good mood. Her eyes fall from his stare to the ground and his slipper clad feet as they shuffle over to her bedside.

They're too dirty for Nami's comfort.

That's right. Nami didn't do the laundry yet. Of course they're dirty.

She should do something about that.

"…listening? Nami? Nami." Laws sighs like she's a lost cause. His lips press into a firm line and his eyes are cold when Nami peeks up at him through her lashes.

"Did you hear me?" he asks from his seat on the metal chair. The bowl of soup he brought steams invitingly beside his elbow on the tabletop. Her eyes fall back down.

"They're dirty," she says when Law reaches over to smooth the heavy down blanket over her lap. He pauses and pulls back—just barely—frowning as he raises his tattooed hands to inspect them.

"I—" he starts, but she is quick to cut him off.

"They're dirty," she repeats, "Your slippers."

He sighs.

She blinks.

A heartbeat then, "If I take them off, will that make you happy?"

She mulls it over slowly with a fast deepening frown. "…No."

"Nami—"

"Where are we, Law?" Nami picks at a loose thread in the blanket. The seemingly menial action causes her fingers to throb anew, she whimpers when a particularly harsh tug sends a sharp pain up her hands. Law is quick to scold her.

"Stop that," he reprimands with a scowl. Nami complies, but stares up at him until he answers. "We're on board the Polar Tang."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

The Polar Tang. Law's ship. Nami's new home. Safe. Yellow. Bepo.

Nami lets the relief trickle over her and smiles to herself.

Bepo must be worried.

"Look, Nami—"

"Will you feed me today?" she asks, her eyes on the cooling soup.

He backtracks and turns to stare at the soup before picking up the spoon. He even makes sure to blow on it before pushing it into her mouth, something he never cared to do before. How kind of him. Maybe her almost dying spurred him to have more tact. When the bowl is empty and Law has almost forgotten his annoyance at her, Nami sits passively when he wipes the renegade drops from her chin with his fingers. His touch burns her. She should reprimand him. He never seems to remember her limits.

But not today.

She wants her swords.

"Law?" her voice is soft and small. He stops to look down at her with cold, dark eyes that are painfully familiar. Her lip quivers, and the coldness leaves. "Can I have my swords?"

Those eyes narrow and the coldness returns.

"Why?" the one-word question is a challenge, a test, and his tone tells all. He seems to have forgotten that if she wanted to, she would have killed him already. Sleeping targets are the easiest and the number of times Law has slept beside her exceeds the amount he believes.

"I miss them," she says easily. And it is the truth. She misses the weight of them against her shoulders. The smell of steel. When he doesn't answer right away, she adds, "It'll make me happy."

His shoulders slump and he sighs.

He does that a lot lately.

Sighs.

Nami almost wants to make him stop doing it.

It annoys her.

Maybe she should take his tongue.

"Okay," he says with a nod, as though he is convincing himself, and Nami is so relieved that she decides once more to spare his tongue, "Alright."

Nami smiles.

It is enough and Law's good mood returns. He hums as he strides easily out of the room with the tray and empty soup bowl. Nami's eyebrow ticks.

His damned humming.

Law is lucky he is her friend. She really wants to cut his tongue out of his mouth.

As the too small door locks behind his too large figure, Nami repeats quietly to herself, "Law is my friend. Friends help, not hurt."

Law hums for the next two hours, and Nami hates every second of it.

When his blasted humming stops, Nami lets her eyes slip closed, and for the first time in months, she sleeps.

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Citrus, salt, sweat and wet grass. If she were to try a bit harder, she would catch the fleeting scent of freshly baked bread and faint freesia perfume. The steady clank of metal on metal, the thud of a hammer head beating in a nail and a jolly whistle is comforting, and somewhere a little farther, Nami can hear muffled laughter coupled with heavy footsteps. A violin plays a smooth tune, pauses, then hearty beat, stops, then is replaced with the gentle strumming of a guitar. The music brings her calm, and just to her right, is a random pattern of pages being turned, paper sliding on paper.

Her skin is warm from the sun, and her hair sways with the ocean breeze from where she has it thrown over the head of her reclined lawn chair. Though her eyes are closed, she knows that the sky is pristinely blue, and that the gentle rocking is from the ocean's water lapping at the sides of the ship—whose ship?—her ship—someone's ship—though not Law's ship.

Home, she thinks immediately, this is home.

But why…?

A special kind of snicker sounds just above her. Nami knows this laugh, knows it by heart, but cannot remember to whom it belongs, just that it is special and wonderful and deserves to be protected. The laugh is soft, and the too loud footsteps that are trying too hard to be quiet tells her all she needs to know.

Her lips quirk, and she thinks she'll let him—though she does not quite know who he is—have his fun and not open her eyes. She'll let him think he's fooled her. Her amusement quickly fades, however, when a cold and wet body lands upon her own, skin to skin, cheek to cheek, lanky arms and legs wrapping around her neck and waist as she falls off her chair and onto soft grass with an outraged shriek. Her eyes shoot open, and all she sees is a wide, wide grin—that is all sorts of beautiful, but for reasons she does not know—and dark, dark eyes that are as bright as the sun shining down on them both.

There's laughter, from two distinct voices, one from the man holding her tight, a happy sort of rasp, and the other, a gentle tinkering giggle from a woman a little ways away.

She's screaming at him, her arms twisting to escape his vice grip so that she might try to land a hit on him, but he's laughing and laughing and the sound is so wonderful that Nami gives up, shuts her eyes against the bright sun, and laughs with him.

Further away, there is the whining call of, "Nami-swan~", the scolding shout of, "Idiot! Don't track water all over the stairs! I almost died!", and the slightly worried comment of, "That was dangerous, you can't swim."

And Nami just laughs against the cold cheek rubbing affectionately against her own.

For the first time in a long time, she is stupidly, foolishly, happy.

Her eyes open again, but the sun is gone. She has a moment of panic before she recognizes the dark ceiling and sterile smell of the room which Law has put her in.

She is awake.

That lovely picture was a dream.

…A dream, how strange…

Nami hasn't dreamt since—

A movement to her left brings Nami's attention to Law's hunched form from where he sits in the metal chair, watching her. There is a candle on the tabletop, weakly lighting the room, more than enough to see his face, but not enough for her to see the words scrawled across the pages of the notebook Law rests his hand on. He looks as though he is ready to jump, a predator poised over his prey. There is no question as to who is his prey, and Nami flinches instinctively under the weight of his gaze. When he speaks, his expression is cold, calculating, waiting.

"You're crying," he says, his eyes amber in the flickering candlelight. They look almost gold, and so familiar that Nami's lip quivers once more. They lose their edge, and he almost looks defeated. His voice soft and gentle, using that tone, the one he uses when he wants something from her, he asks her, "What's wrong, Nami-ya?"

"I—" she begins, but stops because she doesn't know what to tell him.

"I don't know."

And it is not a lie.

She doesn't know why she is sad, she doesn't know why she was so happy in her dream, doesn't who they were and why they were there with her. She does not know, and that truth, makes her all the more sad.

"I was remembering."

For some reason, that seems like the right thing to say.

She turns to her side, and smiles.

It is enough. He seems satisfied with her answer and nods to himself. His pen dances in his hand across the page, but Nami is too far away to see what he has written.

"Good," he says absently, "That's good."

Law closes his book and leans across the chasm between them to press his lips to the skin between her eyes. She frowns a bit at the sudden affection. It's unlike him.

"Let me get you ready for bed." His breath his hot on her skin and smells faintly like sake and ale. The smell makes her melt, for a reason she cannot name, other than what she might call… nostalgia…? Is it?

He stands, and takes his notebook with him, giving Nami a few moments to wonder why the room and the hallway beyond the door is so still, so quiet.

It's not until after Law's washed her face, feet and hands with startling cold water and tucked her into bed with a whisper of his lips on hers that Nami realizes. It sends a sharp shot of panic through her veins, chilling her blood even though the blanket is suffocatingly warm. Law doesn't seem to notice her sudden discomfort, because he cleans up his tools quickly—humming—and leaves the room with an easy smile back at her. As the door shuts behind him, it locks, and with the drop of the bolt, her heart goes with it into the depths of her stomach. There is no noise. There are no voices, no laughter, no obnoxious clinking and clanking of glass on beer bottles. The room is completely still, no rocking, no gentle swaying. Most jarring of all, is the absence of the constant, steady pulse of the submarine's heart she's come to know so well.

She is not on the ship.

Reviews, follows, and anything from the readers are loved! Thank you for reading!

SELF NOTE; I hate set-up chapters.